Proof of pudding is in the cheating
WE know imitation is the sincerest form of flattery but was there ever a schmooze more blatant than copying a fashion icon’s signature pageboy haircut?
Withering American Vogue editor Anna Wintour, she who was spine-chillingly depicted by Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada, has long been famed for her intimidating combination of opaque shades and geometric fringe.
Legend has it that her 1920s-style bob is professionally blow-dried daily.
Harper is the hair apparent
The style is so impeccably neat, it smacks of discipline and self-control.
How astounding, therefore, to see seven-year-old Harper Beckham, above, seated with her siblings and dad alongside Wintour at her mum’s fashion show paying follicular homage with the identical hairdo.
ALEX Hollywood, the twice-betrayed wife of TV baker Paul, is valiantly keeping calm and carrying on after taking back a cheating husband who almost immediately upped and offed and cheated all over again. But should you ever forgive a philandering spouse? It’s a question so earthshatteringly bewildering that even seasoned agony aunts struggle to find an answer.
Saying: “You strayed, but that’s OK, come home and let me bring you some nourishing chicken soup while you relax on the sofa in your bathrobe,” is tantamount to declaring: “You broke my heart, destroyed our trust, embarrassed, hurt and shamed me, but please do snuggle down in front of Coronation Street alongside our dazed and confused children.”
You, the sufferer, are in effect handing out a licence to reoffend. You are showing that a selfish disloyal act goes unpunished, that it is comfortably possible to have your wicked way with whomsoever you choose and still be welcomed back to hearth and home like a conquering hero.
There are innumerable reasons why we overlook adultery. We do it because we can’t stand the thought of our marriage ending, our assets being divided up, our children being shuffled from home to home and the terrifying spectre of loneliness. We do it because we are still madly in love with our other halves. We do it because “to err is human, to forgive divine”. We worship the notion that everyone deserves a second chance. We want to believe new leaves can be turned over.
Somehow we find it in our hearts to bury the pain and put a brave face on rebuilding our relationships. We even manage not to bang on about the affair too much. We’re aching to ask:
“How long? How many times? Where? When? Did you love her/him?
Did you think about us when you were whisking your fancy piece off to Paris?”
But we don’t. We don’t want to nag. We’re giving the new start our utmost.
JUST like Alex, right, who welcomed Paul back to the fold after his highly publicised affair with a sultry American chef, we do our best never to sully our lips with the saga. We are being brave and non-judgmental. We are striving for continuity and contentment for our children. We are biting our tongues and trying not to think about the two of them in the throes of ecstasy. We are gradually beginning to breathe normally, sleep a little and relax when right under our noses the forgiven sinner sins all over again.
Alex is remarkably dignified and collected. She says simply: “It happened again and it was a done deal, my marriage was over. From the minute I knew, it was over. There is nothing.” Was she wrong to give her husband the benefit of the doubt? She – and many other husbands and wives who have done the same – says she had no choice: “I believed I was doing the right thing. I did, absolutely.” For what it’s worth, despite the outcome, so do I.
JACKIE’S ‘ROYAL’ SIBLING AND A DESICCATED FOLLOWER OF FASHION
JACKIE Kennedy’s sister “Princess” Lee Radziwill has died at the age of 85.
The sisters’ relationship was mind-boggling. Both enjoyed – or should that be endured – the carnal attention of Greek shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis.
Lee, though married to Polish aristocrat “Prince” Stanislas Radziwill at the time, attracted his attention first and when he spurned her for her sister Jackie she was said to have been furious.
A game girl, Lee, right, has been described as “gallivanting through the 60s and 70s”. She hung out with Andy Warhol and Rudolf Nureyev and was linked to Peter Cook, Labour politician Roy Jenkins, and Mark Shand, the Duchess of Cornwall’s swashbuckling brother. She kept herself bone-thin, all the better to showcase her beloved haute couture and with her sister came to epitomise thoroughbred chic.
She and Jackie were famously described by Breakfast At Tiffany’s author Truman Capote as American geishas.
Am I mistaken or despite all the cash and glamour did the two seem anything but happy? ■
LORD, scientists now decree we should stop roasting our Sunday lunch. Instead of browning the beef, crackling the pork, crisping the chicken and filling the house with delicious aromas, we should plonk the lot in a cauldron of water and boil the living daylights out of it.
Into a watery grave we should fling the spuds, the broccoli and the carrots. As for Yorkshire pudding – let’s not contemplate the sodden damage we should wreak.
We’re all keen on saving the planet but for goodness sake, cut us some Day of Rest slack.
Some of us have only just managed to rid ourselves of the hideous 1960s memory of cabbage boiled to oblivion, and the lingering stench you could never quite get out of the curtains.
Meghan’s reign is mainly plain
MEGHAN is beginning to speak with a British accent, claim those who would do anything to find fault with the Duchess of Sussex. Of course she is.
The woman is an actress, a picker-up of dialects, a chameleon, whose profession depended upon sensitivity to nuances in language and pronunciation.
If she’s sounding British let’s take it as a mark of her determination to be clearly understood in her adopted country and her desire to fit in and blend seamlessly.
I interviewed Madonna straight after she’d starred in the film Evita and she’d inadvertently picked up an accent and demeanour exactly like Eva Perón.
It happens to the best of us. We identify strongly with someone and end up sounding more like them with every syllable we utter.
It’s clear this is affection not affectation, as My Fair Lady’s Professor Henry Higgins might say.